


Dream Girl

by munkinette



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/munkinette/pseuds/munkinette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabelle French has been plagued by nightmares for as long as she can remember. To no avail has she seen therapists and committed herself to institutions. No one but the pawnbroker seems able to help. His taste, his scent, his skin have become the three coordinates of her sane world. When she sleeps besides him, she does not dream. She is where she needs to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rainy Day

**Author's Note:**

> Cover art by Adrian Domnisan / Art on Wall ( look him up on Facebook, he's awesome! ;) )

 

  


 

The hasty clicks of Isabelle's heels echo through the wide corridor, louder in her ears than any beeping machine and murmur from doctor or nurse. She's trying her best not to notice how horrifyingly familiar the cavernous sound is, or how the hospital walls are too-white, the lights much too bright for a past time that she's not supposed to have any memory of, because it _never happened_.  Between the open window at the front of the hall, blowing cold late-autumn air inside, and the door screeching shut somewhere at her back, she manages to locate the spiraling set of stairs of Storybrooke's General Hospital. Isabelle curls her hands on the handrail, breathing deeply as she tries to center herself, but the feel of cold metal bars against her palms is far from being the lifeline she so desperately craves. It is not soon enough when she finally makes it to the ground floor, puts her small, sweaty palms across the glass door of the front entrance, and _pushes_.

Her dress whispers along her skin as she hurriedly makes her way across town, her coat and corset, no, _belt_   discarded somewhere in the emergency room. The encounter with the blonde woman now recovering on the second floor of the hospital has brought more of those images that never cease to swivel through her head, and the asylum from three stores below only mocks her impotence to sort through them. It would take her in again, she knows, and she would once more be lost. No. She has to find _him_ , and be found in return.

 

It's just about closing time when the bell hums in the front of Mr. Gold's shop. Rumford sighs. He isn't in the mood for customers. If he's to be honest with himself, he hasn't truly been in the mood for _anything_   for as long as he can remember. His fingers linger atop the yellowed pages of his register, the vellum strangely comforting against his skin. And he smiles - a cracked simulacrum of what could once have been a smirk.

He sits there, a dozen seconds, maybe more, just inhaling deep breaths of stale air. And then he wills himself to move, grab hold of his cane and put one shaky foot in front of the other, because isn't that what he always does? There's no point in postponing facing whoever is waiting for him on the other side. He wants it over and done with quickly. It's been a long time since Rumford Gold last rejoiced in making a profitable sell or striking a cunning deal, and longer still since he last went home to notice the comfort and not the enormous emptiness of it all.

So he taps his way across the dimly lit back room, and peels away the curtains separating the front of his shop. He half-expects to find the mayor standing there, ready to vent her unhappiness. Or perhaps, he thinks, he might come face to face with a wary Mrs. Lucas on yet another brave and pointless quest to spare the diner's customers the fright of him collecting the rent in person. What he does not expect at all is to find himself facing _her_.

"Isa..." he breathes, surprised, and more surprised even to realize her shortened name doesn't feel quite right on his tongue, "...belle."

She stares at him from across the room, wide-eyed, face flushed, looking every bit like this is the first time they see each other, and he thinks it's quite silly, really, because this is the woman who met him for drinks and sex the night before. The woman who has slept in his arms and from whose bed he has crept out of at daybreak. It's in Isa's dainty little apartment above the library that lays forgotten, probably rumpled, one of Gold's favourite ties, and, equally tarnished, most of his unsavoury reputation. So he wants to laugh at how ridiculous she's being, except all clever, snarky retorts die on his tongue because, as confusing as the look in her eyes is, he finds he much prefers it to the exhausted hollowness that had always been there before. Isabelle French _shines_ ,  seemingly more alive than ever, and it's almost enough for him to forget they're in a lifeless, dusty, old shop, and he's a spiritless, crippled old man. Almost.

A loud thump shakes him from his haze, and he realizes she must have dropped something, moving towards him with small, uncertain steps as if his shop's entire floor is made of broken glass, and that is something he can indeed recognize. There's a rhythmic tapping sound reaching his ears and it takes Gold a moment to process it's not coming from his cane. But it's not like he has time to ponder on it, because soon enough small fingers brush the lapels of his suit, trembling, hesitant gestures so uncharacteristic to Isa but startlingly endearing coming from this strange, new Isabelle. Cautious, as if expecting him to dissolve under her touch, she curls her body against his, so tender, pliant and _alive_   that he's caught off guard by his own body's urge to respond to her touch, to wind around her warmth like thread on a spool and stay like that forever.

The novelty of the sensation freezes him, but Isabelle moves for him, tipping her head back and rising on her toes to softly bring her lips to his. She shivers against his chest, and there's this faint metallic smell to her skin and a bitter taste to her mouth, but once her lips part his, ever so slowly, long-forgotten flavours, homemade and precious, leave him light-headed. He cannot tell why this feels so different from their other kisses, why her proximity sends small electric shocks sparkling underneath his skin, not when his brain refuses to cooperate with his senses and keeps repeating that the mechanics of it all is not unlike what they've shared before. But there is one thing Gold feels quite certain of. He wants to know where this - where _she_ \- will lead them. He wants to follow. He wants _more_.

And so his arms flutter around Isabelle's form before deciding on encircling her tiny waist and settling at the small of her back. She pulls him tighter against her then, her small hands pressing against his shoulder blades from behind, and he can feel the pounding of her heart reverberating through him. It's a strange feeling, her heart beating inside _his_ chest, setting his own shriveled muscle back in motion, and he finds himself instantly addicted to it. And it's then that he realizes he doesn't have to hold back, that he doesn't _want_   to hold anything back when it comes to this woman in his arms, not when having her attentions has been the highlight of his dull existence in this pitiful excuse of a town. He's never told her that, he thinks. In fact, he hasn't truly realized it until this very moment... that he might actually care...

But then, just as quickly as she's come to be in his arms, Isabelle is breaking away from him with a small whimper, her eyes in a frantic search of his face.

"What...," he makes to ask, startled by her sudden change of heart and, to be fair, at this point, by everything.

"I don't _know_ ," she cuts him off, shaking her head hopelessly, brows knitted in frustration, and Gold gets this irrational, highly improper urge to smile and kiss the tip of her nose. Which he does. She stiffens at once, but when she gazes back up at him after what roughly feels like an eternity, her bewilderment is so unreasonably beautiful, and she's responding with a small, brief smile of her own. Passingly, Gold thinks he might have known a woman with a smile as warm as hers once. A long, long time ago, before cabinets filled to the brim with strenuously restored items became his only focus.

"I think..." Isabelle frowns, and he can't remember ever seeing this woman struggle for words, "I need..." she doesn't seem to decide on that either, her hands twisting restlessly in the now much too wide space between their bodies, but then her face clears and deep blue eyes bore into his, and she knocks the breath out of him: " _you_."

For a man who has spent most of his years relishing in deceit and living off the fear of others, it is highly unsettling that he cannot find a single trace of falseness Isabelle's features, and even more so that she comes to _him_   to banish her fears. It's strange enough to be needed, stranger still to be needed by _her_.  It feels like a door is being forcefully held open in front of him, a path that will only lead to letting her down, to failure and heartache, and his mind is screaming to take cover, to flee or send her away. But then Isabelle's hand is so gentle as it cradles his face, brushing away a few loose strands of hair from his eyes and, with them, some of his darkest thoughts, and when his knuckles find themselves caressing her cheek in return, he allows himself to consider the possibility of a path towards companionship and affection. They're such foreign notions, and the chances of it all working out this way are pretty slim, but if Isabelle is willing to held open such a door to someone like him, then he should at least be willing to step through it.

Except he doesn't have the courage to make the first step, never had, and it's hers to take, once more. There's nothing tentative about Isabelle's motions now, as her hands grab at his jacket and yank it off his shoulders before attacking his waistcoat and rapidly divesting him of it. The spare tie that he keeps in his shop is her next victim, as are the top buttons of his shirt. The sudden urgency to her actions spurs Gold on, because her wanting him, _truly_   wanting him, has to be the most erotic sight he's ever seen.

Isabelle's dress is soft against his calloused fingers, loose enough that he has no trouble peeling it off her body in one swift motion before pulling her back to her rightful place against his chest and burying his head in the crook of her neck. The tingles on his skin are back as he nuzzles below her ear, stroking his lips across the length of her throat, occasionally grazing with tongue and teeth. One of his hands fists in her curls while the other sets on a quest to caress every bit of skin it can find. With every inch of flesh explored, Isabelle's breathing quickens, soft sounds escaping her lips, and Gold wants to smile, he wants to cry, joyful and petrified and in awe with this woman in his arms who has allowed him to have her so many times before, and yet makes him feel like this is the first time he's truly touching her.

He soon realizes that she's touching him, too, having gained access to places she shouldn't normally have access to, her little hand slipping below his now magically undone belt to cup him through his boxers. Gold bites back an undignified whimper, cursing himself for not anticipating this, for failing to remember, in the face of the new Isabelle, how much of a tease the old Isa could be. He grabs her wrist, stills her hand and looks her in the eye, feels her breath grazing his mouth, her disheveled hair tickling his cheek, sees her eyes crinkle and her smile brighten. She's _smiling_.

Gold's cane has long been accompanying whatever item Isabelle had dropped to the floor, and now they're joining them as he lowers her onto his discarded shirt and jacket, the small cot and his desk a few feet away suddenly much too far for his liking. She shifts underneath his weight until he can feel every inch of her pressed snugly against him, and yet he needs her _closer_.  Isabelle is equally reluctant to let go of him to allow him to peel off her bra and knickers, and shake off his trousers. She's looking at him with hazy eyes, and once the tasks accomplished, her legs come to circle his hips and her arms to caress his back, urging him as near as he can get, then nearer still. He's not about to argue, not when her body arches so beautifully off the floor and into his as his fingers graze her torso, her hips, her navel, and _lower_.  She sighs, her hands tugging on his hair, and soft crooning reaches his ears:

"Touch me again, it's working."

At that, Gold stares at her, perplexed. "What is?"

But Isabelle remains silent, biting her bottom lip and wetting it with the tip of her tongue, gazing down at their naked bodies, and Gold figures this is clearly not the time to dwell on semantics. Not when he's right there with her, willing,  _dying_   to touch her and do _more_ ,  needing her just as much as she him.

In one smooth thrust he's sheathed all the way inside her, and Isabelle cries out. A belated semi-coherent thought crosses his mind and he means to ask her if she's locked the front door, but it goes away just as quickly when she moves underneath him, canting her hips up and somehow managing to pull him in even deeper. A groan escapes his lips, and he's hopeless to do anything but think of her, rejoice in the feel of all of her, move against her, move _with_   her, and for some strange, inexplicable reason this is enough, like nothing has ever mattered or will ever mean more to him than this, than _them_.

Isabelle's quick breaths carry barely intelligible words. "Find your dreams... doesn't always last... forever." Gold has never learned what it is exactly that she needs when she gets like this, and so he does the only thing he knows would bring redemption to them both, and grabs her thighs, shifting her slightly so that he can hear her cry out for him. A few more powerful thrusts and she comes in his arms, harder than ever before, clutching at him fiercely, wrenching his cock and making him see stars, and once the haze of pleasure starts to dissipates from his mind, he thinks her nails have surely drawn blood on his back. He's panting heavily in the aftermath, clutching her small frame tightly to his chest, unsure of what has just happened but blissfully content that it did. Isabelle, too, cuddles into him, and lets out a deep sigh, the hot air dancing across his chest.

"Belle?" His voice is as slurred as his mind, his brogue so thick that he thinks he would have trouble understanding himself, and he manages to pull slightly off of her to watch her face. Her eyes are soft and a small, dreamy smile plays across her lips. Gold looses track of the time they spend staring at each other, feeling warm while laying on the cold floor of his shop, time's only measures Isabelle's breathing slowly returning to normal and her gentle caresses on his stubbled cheek. He finds he takes just as much pleasure from this simple act as he's taken from their lovemaking. In fact, he thinks they are still making love.

"Belle," she breaks the silence by trying out her new nickname on her tongue. "I like it," she smiles happily. "I'm alright, Rum... everything's alright," she whispers and moves up to kiss his neck in shy reassurance. He wouldn't normally believe her, because she never seems truly alright, except that right now he feels it, too. It all feels _right_.  He doesn't know what surprises him more, the feeling or him actually being able to feel something.

"I should be going... and you should close your shop," she adds, squeezing his arm.

"Aye, that I should," he says reluctantly, and he awkwardly starts to disentangle himself from her, instantly regretting the loss of her warmth. They make quite the pair as they stand up, stark naked surrounded by antiques, and Gold is suddenly grateful for having been inspired enough to leave most of his shutters closed that morning. As Isabelle collects her discarded clothing and retires to the back room, he's left to fumble with his own clothes, cane and thoughts.

"Care to tell me what brought this on?" He asks, voice raised so it will carry to her.

"I... I had a car accident. Don't freak out, everything is still in perfect condition, as you could very well see," she quips. "Surprisingly, I didn't cause it. A woman in a yellow bug hit me. She got a concussion, but she'll be fine, too. It's just that..." a deep sigh barely makes its way to his ears, "Never mind. It's fine, I'm fine now," she says, making her appearance from behind the heavy curtains after what to Gold have felt like terror-filled _ages_.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," he says, because he doesn't know _what_ to say when faced with the sudden, bloodcurdling possibility of losing this woman who is not even his.

"No, Rumford. I need to walk for a bit. Clear my head." He's left befuddled as she pecks him on the cheek, whispers "Thank you" and makes her way across the room, bending to pick something up. He can finally make out what it was that she'd dropped to the floor. One shoe, heel broken. She clutches it tightly in her hand as she taps her other, mismatched shoe and bare toes out of his shop, opening the door and giving him a small wave.

"Goodbye," he mumbles, and taps his own cane to the back room. Before the little bell rings a second time, Belle's clear voice echoes one last time throughout his shop: "I've made you some tea, it's on your desk!"

Gold stares dumbfounded at the steaming teapot and little chipped cup carefully arranged on a tray onto his workbench, as his chest fills up with the sweet, familiar perfume of cinnamon and roses, and with something else that he cannot identify, but that makes him ache like never before.


	2. Not Who She Thought She Was

Isabelle has always put her books ahead of her social life, her career before any emotional pursuit and her strong will at work to banish her fears. But it's during nights such as this, when all clocks in Storybrooke but the one above her apartment strike two, and she wakes up drenched in sweat, with tears running down her face, the chilliness of a dark dungeon in her bones and the imprints of an overly-embroidered pillow she does not own onto her cheek, that fear _will_ get the best of her.  
  
It is but one in the legion of nightmares that plague her, all treacherous, incessant and ruthless as they pull at her mind, and it is always her heart that ends up breaking apart with their cadence, the inexplicable longing to go back to the dream losing the battle to the terror the nightmare has seeped into every molecule of her shuddering body.  
  
Isabelle jumps out of her bed and pajamas and into the first pair of jeans she can find, fumbles in the dark for her coat and purse, slams the apartment's door shut behind her and paddles her golden flats down the library's narrow set of stairs. It is only when she finds herself outside, gulping deep breaths of Storybrooke's brisk summer air, that she is certain she is, once more, fully awake.  
  
~.~  
  
The massive doors of The Rabbit Hole stand wide open, colourful pieces of glass warm under her fingertips and vibrating to the rhythm of the music blasting from the inside. Try as she might, Isabelle cannot quite remember how or why she's come to face these doors tonight. She's never been here before, and the place is a long way from the pier where she usually takes her nocturnal walks.  
  
The gentlest nudge to her calf and a quick glance behind her reveal Phillipe; the little dog has once more sneaked out of his own house to become her companion and valiant caretaker for the night, and Isabelle smiles at his feeble reminder. Yes, they _should_ return to their homes.  
  
But the sensation against her palm, so much alike the beating of a heart, feels strangely inviting, and the textures, sounds and smells wrapping themselves around her are all so different from what she comes across every day in her little universe made of aged paper and still, silent library stalls, that she wonders if she is somehow being granted permission to escape the burden of being Isabelle for a little while.  
  
"Go home, Phillipe," she whispers, and as she summons the bravery to step inside, she also does her best to drape herself in the cloak of another, very different woman - someone unafraid when darkness falls, someone who goes out to share a drink, laugh and game of pool with friends; someone who, when the time finally comes to lay to sleep at night, only dreams of the plainest, most mundane things... if she ever dreams at all. If she tries hard enough, she knows she can leave Isabelle waiting outside, all knotted fears in her stomach and muddled thoughts in her head, and step inside as a brand new Isa only looking to sate the craves for alcohol in her veins and numbness of her mind.  
  
~.~  
  
She doesn't have a clue if it's near closing time, but judging from the way the only other customer of the place sits awkwardly perched upon a bar stool, neither does he. Isa takes a minute to study him - the long brown hair framing his face, grazing his shoulders, the look of eerie concentration in his eyes as he incessantly spins a glass of scotch onto the dark wooden surface of the bar. The gesture is peculiar, oddly familiar, and the crumb of Isa's heart that still belongs to Isabelle skips a beat.  
  
"Sorry, Miss, we've closed," comes the voice of another who appears from just behind the bar to pour another drink to his only customer, and Isa frowns.  
  
"Mr. Gold is... only here for the rent," the bartender adds then, by way of explaining himself. His voice is a little uneven, and Isa figures he's trying his best to get her to leave.  
  
The other man, _Mr. Gold_ ,  throws him a glare at that, and turns around to look at her. For some inexplicable reason, Isabelle expects a piercing golden gaze and ample gestures, but is faced instead with an immobile form and tired brown eyes. She thinks the weary look upon Mr. Gold's face is much alike the reflection she sees in her mirror every morning, which must be what feels so familiar about him. She's never met Mr. Gold before.  
  
"Does rent come in the form of sixty year old whiskey?" Isa counters, managing to surprise herself as well as Gold. She doesn't miss the way the corner of his mouth curls upward by a few millimeters, nor the way his gaze sweeps over, taking all of her in - her hair, tangled to the point of being a public hazard, the blue coat and rumpled t-shirt underneath, her worn-out golden flats. She must look a vision.  
  
"Care to collect some rent with me?" Gold asks suddenly, pointing one finger to the chair next to his, and this comes as a whole new surprise. It sounds as much invitation as it does demand, spoken as it is in the most curious mix of insecure and commanding tones, but then Gold frowns, as if taken aback by the words that have just left his mouth, and Isa chooses to believe it's the former. She sets her small purse on the counter and takes the proffered seat by his side, noticing just now the gold-tipped cane, leaning against the bar.  
  
"What can I get for you, Miss?"  
  
"I'll have what Mr. Gold is having, thank you," Isa orders and instantly finds herself before a glass of MacCutcheon, neat.  
  
"That's ironic, when you think of it... How your glass and mine are worth just about his monthly rent," Gold chuckles mirthlessly by her side, and Isa almost chokes on her sip.  
  
"Well... You should have thought about that _before_ inviting." She tries a small smile for him with that, a smile half Isa's - half Isabelle's, and she is proud when only half a blush makes its way to her cheeks.  
  
Why does Gold seem so intent on studying her every time she opens her mouth? It's _unnerving_.  
  
"It's no matter," he says, finally, his voice gruff and a little slurred. _"After all, I make gold,"_ Isabelle imagines having heard him say. It must have been the song that's playing.  
  
"It's Rumford, by the way."  
  
"The whiskey?" Isa frowns.  
  
"My name," Gold adds, dumbfounded.  
  
"Oh… I'm sorry. I'm Isa. Isa French." She extends her hand to him, only to curse herself for it the next second. Handshakes are probably not as appropriate in bars as they are inside libraries. But then Rumford takes her proffered hand and moves it to his lips, placing a barely-there kiss with a grace that speaks of times long-forgotten, and Isa finds herself reconsidering appropriateness.  
  
~.~  
  
It all goes quite smoothly from there; the next hour or so is spent partly talking, mostly drinking away the rest of the rent Gold has just collected and probably a substantial part of next month's rent as well. He doesn't seem inclined to worry about that particular feat, so Isa tries her best not to either.  
  
She discovers that he needs to be prodded to talk, and that when he does talk, Rumford Gold is inclined to quip. Isa likes his quips. She likes how their nonsensical chatter takes her mind off... other things. So she listens eagerly when he tells her he's the owner of the pawnshop in town, as well as most businesses and lands, and she answers solicitously the few inquiries he makes on the life and favourite authors of Storybrooke's only librarian. She doesn't mention the dreams.  
  
When another hour passes and Gold sighs and says they should probably head home, Isa feels too warm and lightheaded to ponder much on where home actually is.  
  
"I will go with you."  
  
A bartender aiming a fire-hose sputtering iced water at them wouldn’t have been half as efficient in sobering them up as those five simple words.  
  
"Unless you don't want me to," she adds, face flaming. The sight of Gold, frozen in his seat and clutching the handle of his cane with white knuckles, isn't particularly reassuring.  
  
"I want you to... If you want to, that is," he manages, staring wide eyed at her like it is the first time he sees her. Well, it actually is. Had he thought she would change her mind and say no? Had she even thought at all before saying _yes_?  
  
Well, no point in thinking about it now, not when he helps her up from her chair and guides her out the doors with a shaking hand at her back, and it all feels so _right_.  
  
Phillipe is still outside to greet them when they emerge. He watches the pair of them with wide eyes, and Isabelle thinks she shouldn't feel this embarrassed under the scrutiny of a little dog. She can't contain her giggles when Rumford bends down awkwardly to pat Phillipe's head in uncoordinated movements, leaving the small dog even more befuddled.  
  
"You're a dog person, aren't you?" She says, smiling. The look of utter confusion on Gold's face is worth her effort of speaking coherent words.  
  
"I-I suppose I am."  
  
They walk the rest of the way to his house in silence. It isn't far, and Isabelle wishes she could see it properly, but the street is awfully dark and her vision sways anyway, so that will have to wait for another day. She knows the image she sees when she closes her eyes - fortress-like walls and pointy towers - is not real, but it will have to do for now.  
  
It's still endearing to see Rumford fumble with his keys, although his clumsiness is probably alcholol-induced and not something inherently his. When, between the two of them, they finally manage to get his door open, it's Isabelle's turn to fumble and Gold's to chuckle on her expense. Her ability to trip in her flats will never cease to amaze her.  
  
They don't bother with turning the lights on - neither of them would be able to stand them anyway - instead they fall together in a mass of limbs onto the couch in Gold's living room. His cane makes a deafening sound when it crashes onto the floor, and Isabelle flinches as she is suddenly hit by the fact that she is now in a complete stranger's house, in the middle of the night, with no one else knowing she's here. There are visions surging in the back of her mind, shackles, a hand striking her hard across the face, and she feels the telltales of panic rising, but then Gold cradles her in his arms, and it's neither forceful nor frightening. His body is pleasantly warm against hers, and when he shifts on the couch to better accommodate them, her nose grazes the side of his neck and his scent engulfs her, soothing and familiar. She breathes in deeply and finds no more vision waiting for her behind closed eyelids.  
  
It is Gold's turn to wake up in a panic during the night, with Isa trashing and whimpering in his arms, and his first reaction is to scramble away from her, certain that he has somehow unconsciously managed to hurt her. But as he attempts to do just that, he realizes it is her who tugs him forcefully back to her chest, clutching desperately at the edges of his now unbuttoned shirt.  
  
"Hush, sweetheart, 'tis alright, just a bad dream," he whispers atop her head, placing a soft kiss to her hair, and smiles when his nonsensical crooning eventually makes her trembling subside.  
  
"There, all dragons banished," he whispers as he cradles her once more to his chest, and falls back into a deep sleep.  
  
~.~  
  
Isabelle is the one to wake up first in the morning, and it's only when she encounters resistance at her back when trying to move that she registers she has spent the night cuddled in Mr. Gold's arms. In his house. On his couch. Drunk.  
  
Every muscle in her body is aching, but it must be a pain that numbs all others because she hasn't felt this tranquil in such a long time. She has barely slept a couple of hours, yet this has been the first good night's rest she's had since she can remember.  
  
She knows when Gold wakes up, his sharp intake of breath making her close her eyes, although there's no fooling him into thinking she's still asleep. Her heart is pounding so hard in her chest, he can certainly hear it... not to mention _feel_   it, with how close they are.  
  
Sharing a drink with a stranger is one thing, waking up with your limbs entwined with hers after what Isabelle can only assume has been a failed attempt at having sex on his part, that is something else. And Isabelle is Isabelle again, her own nervous, bookish self, uncertain whether he will recoil from her in the morning light, or wish to finish what he has failed to start the night before. She forces an ounce of bravery into her sore muscles, opens her eyes and turns around to look at him.  
  
When his eyes meet hers, however, she sees no revulsion in them, no regret, no impish intentions. He's astonished, confused and slightly embarrassed, but he's neither sorry nor repulsed.  
  
"Hey," Gold whispers, his voice hoarse, and lets go of her as soon as he gets his bearings, as if her proximity burns him. He then occupies himself with fiddling with the buttons of his thoroughly ruined shirt.  
  
"Hey," Isabelle replies and begins to disentangle her legs from his, trying to touch as little of him as possible. When she finally manages to get up, Gold follows suit, sitting in as much of a dignified position as he can manage at the edge of his couch.  
  
"I... this," he adds nervously, gesturing between the two of them and looking around his living room like it's been redecorated overnight, "Has never happened before. I mean, I don't… I've never…"  
  
"Rum," she bends to touch his cheek with her palm, and while his stubble grazes her hand pleasantly, his wide, incredulous eyes tug painfully at her heart. "It's ok," she smiles, "Everything is fine." And as she speaks the words, she realizes them to be true.  
  
"I-I'll make us some breakfast," he half-states, half-asks.  
  
"Actually, I should go. It's late, and I have to open the library," she says apologetically. Isabelle is still a coward, in the bright light of day, and breakfast would be too soon, too close.  
  
"Alright then," he says, contemplating his cane lying on the floor.  
  
"Alright..." she repeats, grabbing her coat and shoes and bending to pick up her purse from its hiding place below his coffee table, discretely picking up his cane as well and laying it against the couch. "Well, thank you for the drinks," she adds as she stands up, and that is _not_ what she wants to thank him for, but it seems that this morning she is as clumsy with her words as she is in her slippers.  
  
Gold snorts. "Yes, well... Thank you for…" He finally lifts his gaze to look her in the eyes, "For your company."  
  
"Goodbye, Rumford."  
  
"Goodbye, Isa."  
  
~.~  
  
She only stops for a quick glance behind her, for now she can properly see Gold's beautiful, strangely coloured house, and although something tells her that she should feel anguished and sad to see this man close the doors behind her as she leaves, she can feel nothing but peaceful. She doesn't feel like she's leaving at all. She thinks more likely that she has come back.  
  
Isabelle barely makes it inside the library when the sound of the clock above her striking half past eight freezes her in her tracks. It takes her a few moments to process the fact that the ancient thing has somehow started working again. Isabelle grins. If that old, damaged clock can miraculously come back to life overnight, then maybe so can she. Maybe there's still hope for her. Maybe she's not as lost as she thought she was.


End file.
